


Take Flight

by Addisonia



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: British Airways, First Kiss, London Heathrow, M/M, Undercover As Gay, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Addisonia/pseuds/Addisonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade runs into Mycroft Holmes undercover and things take a left turn. Not very explicit</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Flight

**Author's Note:**

> I know home made guns exist, but ... Forgive inaccuracies :-)

As I follow the flight attendant through the divider to the business class section, I hear a gasp to my right. “Greg?”

For some people hairs rise on the back of the neck, for others there's an itch between the shoulder blades. For me the world slows to about three-quarters time.

In the old days, Sherlock mocked me by claiming I count on my fingers. I never let it bother me, though, because it wouldn't be a problem even if it were true; I've never had to go beyond ten fingers when assessing an unidentified menace.

One: Mycroft Holmes is on the same flight as me, sitting just feet away in his shirtsleeves, but packaged in his signature waistcoat. Since he has any transport you can imagine at his beck and call, what's he doing on a scheduled British Airways flight from Barcelona to London Heathrow?

Two: he's looking startled to see me. I swear, nothing surprises that man, but if it did, nothing on Earth would make him admit it. Not unless he wanted you to see. But what does he want me to see?

Three: he's a very formal gentleman. While our collaborations over Sherlock have led to first names, it's far from relaxed. In spite of my best efforts, he's never addressed me by anything less than the full 'Gregory' and he's not looking exactly carefree now.

Four: he appears to be travelling with the blond man in the roomy leather aisle seat next to him. His companion doesn't look happy to see me.

Five: the flight attendant escorting me to my new seating assignment is several steps ahead of me, showing the detached half of my broken economy class seatbelt to the business class flight attendant. She follows him to the galley, so it looks like I still have a minute or two.

Oh look, I don't even need my other hand.

“Myc—”

“It's not how it looks, Greg.” Mycroft's soft tone has an edge of pleading that has me trying to figure out how he thinks it looks. Because I can't think of a single circumstance in which he'd plead. Not one.

  
“He called you 'Mike'.” His companion, a bloke with a foreign accent, traps Mycroft in the window seat as much with his eyes as his body.

“My middle name.” Mycroft glances at me, then stares at the blond. “Anthony _Michael_ Connor.”

  
Hold on, who?

“Why?”

“Really, Mr. Garcia, that hardly seems—”

_“Why?”_

Tamped anger and reluctance flare in Mycroft, then he swallows and stares up at me like he's apologizing. “It was safest to make reference to each other by our middle names to obscure our … liaison from certain people.”

“He is one of yours?” His suspicious Spanish lisp is vicious.

“He's one of my suppliers.”

The blond's eyebrows rise. “He 'services' you?”

Possibly mine do too as I turn my stare on the foreigner.

“Your understanding of the English language is far subtler than I had supposed, Mr. Garcia.”

Wait. _What_?

Satisfaction and triumph ooze out of this Garcia bloke. “So he's your boyfriend.”

Mycroft congeals and I'm about to blurt out a denial as silence begins to unspool between us, but he doesn't break off eye contact with me. It's all that stops me.

“He was.” I'm not sure if it's disbelief or panic that holds me in his thrall. “We ended it several months ago.”

“And 'Greg' is his middle name.”

“Obviously.”

No, not my middle name. OK. So, that means … what does that mean?

Oh God, there's a reason I don't do undercover work. I really want to take a moment to gather myself, swallow down the aggravating pulse in my throat, but I'm afraid if I look away I'll miss something from Mycroft, some kind of message that'll give me a clue what the bloody hell's going on around here. I get nothing from him except the rather offbeat grey-blue pattern of his eyes which, I discover, you can only make out up close.

“What—” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same of you.”

I frown. Why shouldn't I be here?

“You were supposed to be travelling back to London yesterday.” Then he closes his eyes as if he's just given himself away. Not possible, of course. Well, except for …

“How the hell do you know that?” Does he know I had to wait in Barcelona to catch another flight so Daisy and I didn't have to endure each other's company travelling together? Damned Holmeses! The concept of individual privacy flies like a Boeing 747 right over their heads.

“Greg, I—” His gaze skims over to the blond and settles back on me. “I'm not going to say I'm sorry.”

“Of course you're not, you never do.”

Mycroft had gone from cool to defiant, but now he seems to be breaking apart in front of me as he unbuckles his seatbelt and begins to stand. There's just enough space with these roomy seats to step around the other passenger if you're graceful, but Garcia stops him with a proprietary hand on his chest. Mycroft blinks at him, then sinks back down.

My annoyance at Mycroft's intrusion in my life flips over to outrage at his being pushed around. He may be an impossibly annoying prat at times, but he's _our_ prat. My fingers itch to yank the interloper's hand off what's mine to protect, but I daren't until I know more.

Instead, I grab the seat-backs behind and in front of Garcia, crowding him. “Who is this guy anyway?” The man in question is staring up at me with a hint of a smirk that nowhere near reaches his cold black-tea eyes.

“It's not your concern.” Mycroft's tone could chill a gas flame, and I can't help feeling dismayed, but I've learnt to trust my hunches and I'm not going to apologize for how I feel.

“I think perhaps you have missed your chance with 'Mike'.” Garcia's Spanish lisp settles over Mycroft, along with his hand _on Mycroft's leg_ staking ownership. “To let such a fine boyfriend go, it was an error on your part, yes? To leave him for others to share?”

Something complex simmers in me at the notion of anyone tossing Mycroft Holmes aside like rubbish for predators to pick up and pass around. I resent the accusation. Worse though, is seeing him through that lens and remembering his strength comes through the power of his desk-job, that he's not a brawny man. Stripped of his armour and left to fend for himself, that thought somehow turns my stomach. The urge to protect, the thing inside that made me become a copper in the first place, rears up and my fingers curl tight on the seat-backs.

Mycroft frees himself from the other man's touch and a tiny bit of constriction eases in me.

The widening smirk really starts to nettle me now and the urge to wipe it away bubbles up, but Mycroft's bearing makes me hold back. Again my eyes lock with his, desperate for guidance because, well, he didn't correct anything in Garcia's little speech, did he.

Shit.

I transfer my attention to the Spaniard, holding onto my civility by a hair. “Could you give Mike and me a minute?” I drop my arms to let him stand, but instead he glances down the cabin.

“The hostess, she becomes agitated, does she not?”

She does indeed, working to keep a frown at bay as she approaches me again.

“Please take your seat, sir.” She stands to one side of the aisle, making it clear I'm to pass her and sit.

“Don't let us keep you, my dear,” Mycroft interrupts, meeting his companion's annoyed glance and looking back at the flight attendant undaunted. "We'll only be another moment.”

He smiles at her while I mirror her stance, standing aside to let her pass back into economy. She hesitates. For her, having passengers in the aisle flags a safety issue. I see that, but even though I can't say anything to her, for me Mycroft's behaviour flags a national security issue. And national security trumps safety. Of course, Mycroft's expectation of obedience trumps everything.

“Just one more minute then,” she says as she passes me.

“So how long were you two hiding your affair?” Garcia's looking at me. Oh, they both are.

“I dunno.” Mycroft has an unsettling expression that I don't want to see because it's been so bloody long since I've been the centre of someone's world, since I've been wanted, that it's doing me in. Even if it is fake. I keep looking into his eyes for guidance, directives, something. “About a year?”

“One year, three months and two days.”

I goggle at him. “You counted?”

“You broke my heart.”

Christ, I hope to God I never have to interrogate the man because he's turned lying into a fine art. Garcia laughs while I'm mesmerised, trapped by the grey that streaks through blue eyes like lightning strikes, feeling like a right bastard for dumping Mycroft and it never even happened! I should've said we were together for three weeks. Or, maybe, one afternoon.

“Myc—” I stop myself and pinch the bridge of my nose. “God, I just wanted to give my marriage a fair shake.”

“You are married?” Garcia's hoot of delight makes me grind my teeth. Oh, that's right, Mycroft hadn't mentioned Daisy.

“Your marriage is nevertheless over.” Mycroft's sad bruise-blue eyes look sincere, maybe because it's true. Instead of reconciling on this holiday, things went from bad to worse. Daisy's probably already had the locks changed since she got home.

“Wait.” I rub my face and let my hand drop. “You can't know that. How do you know that?”

Why would Mycroft Holmes, backbone of the British government, be keeping tabs on me? Keeping tabs on me abroad no less. It's unthinkable that he persuaded the Spanish authorities or MI6 or anyone, really, to eavesdrop on my private life. So how did he know about the death knell to my marriage?

I cross my arms and roll easily with the moving aircraft at 27,000 feet, but in every other way I have trouble keeping my balance around Mycroft.

“I didn't follow you here,” he says. His eyelids shudder, trying to close but don't quite make it. For once he can't look away from me. “I was in Barcelona purely for business.”

His glance flits over to his companion on that last word, and I shake my head at his completely believable imitation of uncertainty. With acting skills like that … Actually, I'm not 100% sure he is acting. He's a bureaucrat, not a field agent. In fact, what is he even doing out in the field? My crossed arms unfurl.

Garcia chuckles. “So, spying on your former lover, that is the reason you agreed to meet in Barcelona, Mr Connor. My curiosity was aroused, but all is explained.”

I'm not sure if I'm more angry at Mycroft for spying on me or at the twat for trying to stir up trouble over it.

The smooth tremor of the plane shifts to a quake at the same time the seatbelt sign dings, and the business class flight attendant starts towards me. I save him the bother of telling me off and, with a last glance at Mycroft, move down to my assigned place. I have to be satisfied with looking back from time to time, but there's not much I can see.

#

Garcia saunters past to the lav holding one of those man-purses Continentals seem to favour. He turns and shoots his finger at me before disappearing inside. The threat is unmistakable. I wish I had a firearm, but the Met generally doesn't issue them to AFOs who among other things are off-duty, out of jurisdiction and/or, in fact, in an aircraft. I hurry back to the recently vacated seat and snap on the belt.

Before I can say anything, Mycroft's assessing how much other passengers might be able to hear. No one could've missed the story we've spun so far; it's the truth we have to hide now. In for a penny, then. I curl an arm around his shoulders and pull him in. The fresh smell of cotton and merino wool and expensive soap surge over the tang of jet fuel that hangs in the air. I always feel underdressed around Mycroft, but in travel-worn polo shirt and jeans I feel tattier than ever.

The drone of the engines is muted enough here that I take no chances, and murmur straight into his ear. “What's going on?”

He folds his left side against the padded seat arm between us, his right hand resting on my knee, and turns his head enough so I can hear every word. “Go back to your seat, don't look this way again, make yourself invisible. Get off the aeroplane as soon as we land, and stay out of sight until we're through and gone.”

“After that dog and pony show we put on for that … Garcia?”

“Let him continue under the misapprehension you were my floozie—”

His floozie? “If you recall, you were _my_ bit on the side.” I feel his lips curl upwards against my ear, and my face heats. “I mean—”

“Hush, there isn't much time.”

“But I don't understand—”

“All will be explained to you once we make it safely to London.”

I want him to explain it now. “What if you don't make it safely?”

His pause is so long I reassess what I just said. “I assure you, Greg, everything will be explained to you.”

The way my stomach plunges has nothing to do with air turbulence. Things might actually turn out badly.

“Greg?”

He's called me Greg when there's no one else around to play to. Twice. I'm not sure why it matters, maybe because I'm being acknowledged as a … Whatever. If things go bad, I'm not going to tell Sherlock I did nothing. “Let me help.”

“He's dangerous, but as long as he thinks our interest in each other is romantic, he will dismiss you as unimportant.”

“How will that help you?” I don't like the sound of it on any level. For one thing, I still don't get why I was brought to the guy's attention if the idea was to make him dismiss me. Two, it may be too late anyway since dislike and distrust shiver between the Spaniard and me, and no one dismisses a live wire, ever. Third, I'm supposed to be one of London's finest, part of the nation's thin blue line, it's my job to put myself between civvies and criminals. I pull away from Mycroft. “I can't just leave you.”

“Yes. You can.” Something moves behind his eyes. “Tell me you will.”

The way he looks up the aisle, I know time's run out. I don't want to leave and I can only think of one way to stall.

I kiss Mycroft. The Spanish fly-on-the-wall could just put that in his pipe and smoke it. One beat, and Mycroft's hand curls around my jaw, pulls me closer to him.

“Oh, God …” It must be the danger that's making my gut vibrate like that.

“Greg, I've wanted to …” His murmur between little kisses shoots blood south. “No, we can't—”

I deepen the kiss to stop him breaking away, pull him closer, take _possession_ of him. I don't know what's going on, but this is my last chance to—fucking seat arm. All I've got is now, and then I'll have to walk away. This whatever-it-is that feels like it might be a beginning will be over and we'll pretend it never happened, and—Jesus, no. “I'm not giving you up.”

“Well, well, 'Greg', he sees a little competition and tries to win you back.” I look at the returning villain, forced by the space and the lemon-pucker frown of the passenger in the seat behind to pull my arms away from Mycroft. Competition? Yeah, actually, he's just the kind of suave bastard that Mycroft would look good squiring around town. “But as we say in my country, to feed a dead donkey, it is a waste of oats, no?”

Bloody hell, what's between Mycroft and me is far from over, mate. Isn't it? I turn back to my would-be lover, and Jesus, the way he's looking at me. I want to touch him again. I want to _kiss_ him again. He's not acting. He's not. I swallow.

Unfortunately, I can't leave Garcia standing in the aisle, so I release my seatbelt and yield to him. There's something I should be noticing, but all I can think of is that I'm abandoning Mycroft. He and I look at each other again with some kind of … something.

“Whatever you want.” Dammit, I don't want to leave him, but I have no idea what to do. “I'll do whatever you say.”

“Such devotion.”

#

As we land, I figure out Garcia didn't have his man-purse when he returned to his seat.

#

They bypass baggage reclaim and Mycroft shifts him towards an unmarked door. He balks and invites Mycroft to go first. Mycroft covers his hesitation with a smile and goes ahead. We're home, it'll be fine. But I can't stop watching them from afar.

I don't know what I expect, but it isn't a gun. Everything slows for me as they're going through into a corridor. I catch sight of the blond pulling out a handful of something like I'd seen Sherlock put together in his kitchen. A weapon jury-rigged out of a piece of wood, a tube, an elastic band for propulsion.

Oh Christ, and a .22 bullet that can do some real damage at point blank range.

My feet are already moving. The world's a collision of noises. A woman yells. My heart's pounding. Footsteps make a symphony of surround-sound. Almost there, but it's no good. Christ, I may as well be a hundred miles away from Mycroft.

Someone cuts in front of me. “Get outta my way!”

Just before the pop goes off, she ploughs into the Spaniard. I figure out she's the annoying flight attendant from economy as I plough, right behind her, into Mycroft.

A tumble of bodies converge to subdue her quarry, but I pay them no attention. My crazed sprint carries me to the wall, Mycroft swept up in my path. I pat him down again and again, looking for damage, any damage at all. “Jesus, Mycroft, Jesus.”

He leans his head back, eyes closed, arms spread, and he lets me. We're both breathing hard.

#

Hustled away, I'm put in this windowless room where a utilitarian table and two chairs eat up all the good floor for pacing. I don't know if I'm angry or scared or relieved, and I want to see the man with the answers. When the door opens something too sudden to identify blossoms in me, then folds in on itself again.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Anthea.” Andrea. Whoever. The Blackberry is in her hand, but for once she's not texting.

“Mr Holmes thanks you for your assistance today. Your luggage is waiting with a car to take you to your lodgings.”

“Hang on, I've been kept here for almost two hours just for you to dismiss me now?” The Met is in charge of Heathrow security, but even coming from the same team didn't catch me a break. “Where's Mycroft?”

“He's indisposed.”

What does that mean? They never tell you what you need to know. “Is he all right?” I'm sure I didn't miss anything, but while one of those little bullets can't usually stop someone dead in his tracks, without proper attention, in thirty minutes he could bleed out.

“He's been detained in a meeting longer than anticipated.”

A meeting. I close my eyes for a second, and then indignation floods back. “He promised to explain everything, but you're saying he's too busy.”

“That's not what I said.” She puts a small folder on the table between us. “A single room has been booked for you at the Atherton Hotel for as long as you need it, with Mr Holmes' compliments.”

“What?” I stare stupidly at the folder.

“I gather you're in the process of seeking alternate accommodations.”

“Well, yes.” I'll make a quick trip back to the house soon to pick up my stuff, but basically the place is Daisy's now. She won't want me around, and I can't face her either. “But I can sort out my own—”

“It's late and finding a bed for the night will be difficult. Mr. Holmes' arrangements, however, are at your disposal. It might be advisable,” she gives me a speaking look, “to leave now before others decide the details of your input ought to be put in order tonight.”

I know how it works from taking statements at the Yard. If I don't make my escape now, as a minor participant of a major sting I could be locked in this room all night until someone's free to talk to me. And then we'll go over everything I say nine ways from Sunday because, even though I was there, I wasn't part of the plan. I don't know anything, but they'll want to make sure.

Restlessness is still humming in my veins and I'm pretty sure I know the quickest way to disperse it. “Any chance of five minutes with Mycroft before I go?”

If I weren't looking right at her, I'd miss her lightning-fast evaluation of me and her decision to share info—an urge not natural to anyone in Mycroft's department, I'm sure. “He's currently being debriefed himself.”

Bureaucracy probably doesn't give him a headache the way it does normal people, but still. My accrued ill-will and tension drain away at the knowledge that, after having his life threatened, he's trapped in a room, forced to relive everything, and there's nothing he can do about it.

“The arrangements for you, however,” her attention is back on the Blackberry, “are in accordance with his personal instructions.”

The luggage, the car, the hotel room, all seen to at his expense so I don't have to worry. Because we shared a thing for the blink of an eye at 27,000 feet in international air space and this is my pay-off.

“How kind of him,” my heart thumps, “to _act_ in my best interests.”

“Indeed.”

Right.

I pick up the folder and walk to the door.

Behind me, the tapping Blackberry follows.

#

“Mycroft was on a scheduled flight?” John holds his pint, but forgets to drink, his eyebrows doing a fair imitation of Sherlock's. “”With regular people and everything?”

“Well, breathing the rarified air of recycled business class”—I lean back in my seat, teased by the fabricated smell of cotton and finely-woven wool—“but yeah.”

“What was … Doesn't he have … I mean, why?”

I pick up my glass. “If I told you, I'd have to kill you.”

“You haven't got a clue.”

“None whatsoever.” And also if I spilled the little bit I know, someone possibly could die. Probably me.

Theres's a match on telly, and I'm more than happy to finish my pint in silence. After a discreet visit at the Yard from a faceless bureaucrat three days ago, I haven't heard a peep. A relatively painless debrief, a tightly worded commendation from the higher ups—for what, none of us is sure—and it's back to business as usual. More or less.

The Atherton is unassuming and comfy, the kind of place that wouldn't raise eyebrows amongst my lot on first sight. That I wasn't reduced to dossing on Anderson's couch for a week is a godsend. Then again, well, this isn't your average B&B. I'm pretty sure this storybook kind of 'unassuming and comfy' in Central London costs.

The place is run by a widow about my age and her small but cordial staff. She's nice, the owner, and I like to think she's especially kind to me because I'm the only local in the ebb and flow of transient out-of-towners that make up her usual run of guests. I can't help thinking people like us don't run into each other by chance, though, when Mycroft's involved, so what's going on? Oh, right, he's not acting anymore. He thinks he needs to throw women at me to help me get over him. I think he needs to get over himself, is what I think.

I tilt my empty glass in search of amnesia.

“Same again?” John's standing up, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.

I nod. “Good man.”

John startles me when my next pint hits the table, but the rising waft of hops is comforting. Chattering voices and braying laughter from the tables around us penetrate my fogged mind like someone just turned up the volume. I look around. The pub's filled up more than I thought since we came in.

“What's the score?” John takes a sip.

After watching all evening, I'm not even sure who's playing. “No idea.” He quirks a half-grin and sits.

A night out with John is usually more sociable, but tonight he wraps himself up in private thoughts as much as I do. The second pint goes down slowly.

With a swallow of his drink, he glances at me. “So. Mycroft.”

“Sherlock,” I say by way of riposte.

We both contemplate the romping puppy on the screen selling something.

John scrapes a thumb over his brow. “Someone I once knew said brainy is the new sexy.”

“Uh huh. So what they were saying is this thing,” I gesture up and down my body, “is something I can expect to happen every time he opens his mouth.”

“An autonomic chemical reaction.”

“And when I say 'opens his mouth' I—”

“Neurohormones. Once that switch is flicked, there's no stopping it until it runs its course.”

I perk up. “So it's going to run its course?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.” John looks at me. “Until the next time the switch is flicked.”

I'm pretty sure I know, but I don't want to ask. “What causes that, then?”

“It can be any number of variables. For you and me, though,” John works his jaw for a moment, “it's probably just knowing a Holmes.”

As much as I want to blame Daisy's wanderings for destroying our marriage, if I'm really honest, I have to admit there's been something brewing in me ever since the Holmeses first showed up on my radar years ago. With people that extraordinary, you can't help paying more attention, can't help seeing more in the cosmic spotlights they seem to shine, can't help anticipating the next time they … flick a switch. Oh God, no.

“Irene was right. That brainpower,” John drains his glass, “it does things.”

I jostle the table as I hasten to stand up and turn away. “My shout.”

#

Demanding answers of the CCTV probably isn't my best idea.

So when the black car arrives, its open door inviting me to perpetrate my own abduction, I falter. It's been over a month since flight BA486 from Barcelona. In between mediating Sherlock and Donovan on crime scenes and settling into a new flat that feels like solitary, I've gone through the spin cycle of anger, worry, hope, desire, despair, and anger again until I'm dizzy with it.

Really, there's nothing left to say to Mycroft. Well, nothing except: What were you doing on that flight? Who was that guy? Why did you have to involve me?

Why did you say those things? Why did you do those things? Was it all a charade? All of it?

Why do you invade my mind every time I stop moving? Where are you? Where _are_ you?

I rub my upper lip and stare at the open maw of the black car waiting to devour me. My mind knows how to protect me, but my body, Christ, it's taking me into the belly of the whale.

This time it's some office in an underground bunker, a contrast in bare concrete and high technology. I'm almost surprised he persuaded the Queen's image to grace the wall of such a Spartan room, which is too unfinished to be his.

He's sitting at the desk, fingers steepled at his lips, and I'm rivetted. In spite of all the barriers he's put in front of him—table, hands, full worsted jacket—I've never seen him look more … Christ. He doesn't say anything, only stares back. I recognize it for one of the techniques I learnt in interrogation training years ago, and I wonder how long he's willing to let the silence stretch out. I know that game and we could be here all day.

But I triggered this visit, didn't I. “You said everything would be explained.”

“Did you enjoy your stay at the Atherton?”

Deflection. “Yes. Thank you.”

“You could have stayed longer.”

I frown.“My flat was ready.”

“It wasn't."

“You were already more than generous with—"

"You paid a surcharge to expedite preparations and even then moved in early.”

"Oh bloody hell.”

I gaze at the ceiling for a second. He owes me, but he's making the pay-off so big, my own brain is colluding to make me feel obligated to him instead. Clever. The bastard.

“If you need any more assistance moving—”

“I don't need any—” Time to get this back on track. “Why you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You promised me answers. Why were you there?”

“Ah yes.” He looks away and hisses an in-breath before answering. “A conflation of factors, including appropriate vetting clearance and knowledge of all pertinent circumstances, made me the only possible choice for this mission.”

I squint at him. Minor government official my foot. “Who is he?”

Mycroft smiles without humour. “Classified, Detective Inspector. The important thing was to get him onto British soil and into … capable hands.”

“OK.” This definition of 'everything' ticks me off, but doesn't surprise me. It isn't the first time the Official Secrets card has been dealt to me.

“So how did I get pulled into it?”

“You were supposed to be travelling with your wife on another day.”

I have no reason to feel reprimanded. “People's plans do change, you know.”

“Yes, well, your presence on that particular flight was an unfortunate coincidence. A chance meeting where you might inadvertently disclose my identity couldn't be allowed.”

“How could you—wait, were there more of your people around?”

“You are aware, I'm sure, that I'm not at liberty to reveal anyone under deep cover.”

I recall a creditable tackle at Heathrow that brought down the threat and possibly saved Mycroft's life. “The flight attendant in economy.”

He tilts his head in a way that makes me feel pleased with myself. “We couldn't risk any more agents in the air. It was a delicate operation at which we had failed on numerous occasions.”

My fingers clench and I take half a step forward. “Failed? What does that mean?” Had our people been hurt before? Killed? More than once? And Mycroft had gone into it knowing that? “You're not even a trained agent!” I don't want to think about how bloody brave that is.

He sits back, pulls aside his jacket, and slips a thumb and forefinger into a small pocket of his waistcoat, watching me. “You continue to surprise me, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Right, because he sends people off into danger all the time and it's not something grown-ups balk at. Maybe he is a trained agent. Maybe the soft company man he shows us all is his Clark Kent disguise. What do I know? I don't know anything about this man. “Mycroft Holmes is a real person, not just some fake identity, right?”

His face softens into a smile that doesn't have upturned lips. “I assure you, my brother wouldn't wear his name merely as a favour to me.”

Point taken. “Speaking of names, what happened to 'Greg'? We were making such progress.”

There go the corners of his mouth. “Greg.”

OK, no point worrying about missions since there's nothing I can do about it anyway. Find another line of questioning. “So, wouldn't it have been easier for your flight attendant just to have warned me off?”

He comes around the desk and leans back on it. “She tried, but it was a full flight and, by the time she could reach you, discretion couldn't be assured. Anyone could have overheard her, or read a note over your shoulder. For your safety and mine, a controlled introduction had to be engineered.”

“She made sure my seatbelt broke?”

“Yes.”

“And you made sure I saw you in a way that my surprise would make sense.”

“Yes. It was nothing personal.”

“You implied we … It was very personal! Why romantic?” Why did he have to open that can of worms? “Couldn't you have thought of another cover story? Any other story?”

“It seemed the most expeditious way to make you remove yourself from my vicinity and shun me for the rest of the flight.”

“Or, you know, forever.”

“Possibly. I didn't, however, expect your counteraction to be so”—he smiles his non-smile—“shall we say territorial.”

The heat of utter humiliation radiates from me. Jesus, how useless could I be at undercover work? “No.” I point at Mycroft. “No, you made a mistake.”

His eyebrows rise. “Given the data, I made no mistake. Your response was abnormal.”

“What?” That's wrong on so many levels. “Are you saying it's abnormal to be gay?”

“Are you saying you're gay?”

I growl. “Stop evading, and answer the question.”

“I'm not saying it was abnormal in a biological sense.” He stands. “I'm saying it was abnormal in a statistical sense. Married with no apparent history of sexual interest in men: the evidence pointed decidedly to heterosexuality which, in fact, makes up the majority of the population. You should have walked away.”

“I'm a detective. You should have known that filling my head with questions would reel me in.”

“Priorities. You were on vacation and under personal stress. Your career was not foremost on your mind.”

“It's not something I can turn on and off like you do with your” —I wave a hand— “disguises.”

Mycroft goes still. “What, pray, do you mean by that?”

“The way you—” I take a breath and make myself smile, but it's not a pretty one. “You had me convinced. Or wanting to be convinced. Your acting was beautiful.” And it isn't fair to subject an ally to the full force of the Holmes charisma.

I turn to leave. Before I know it, I'm somehow pressed face to the wall and held down, the concrete rough and cold against my cheek.

“As, indeed, was yours, Greg.”

A brittle laugh spills out of me. “Does this qualify as police brutality?” Warm, heavy breaths pulse against my ear and I have to close my eyes. “Is this display real, or another act put on for me?”

“You're the detective, Detective, you tell me. Am I acting or not? Is the distant person one sees everyday the genuine article, who occasionally role-plays,” he slides his hip against me, “to achieve my nefarious ends? Or do I show only a mask, which might slip from time to time by accident to let you glimpse my true self?”

I discount the couple of inches' extra height he has on me because I know I'm stronger. I lunge to break free, but he uses some obscure hold to trap me, and I feel like the idiot Sherlock repeatedly christens me. Until now I haven't observed that Mycroft's perceived weakness in being all brains and no brawn is unfounded. I've known it all along, but haven't paid attention: he uses strategy, not strength, to get what he wants.

“You're acting.” I leverage myself away from the wall a couple of crucial inches, my mind determined not to accept what my body believes. “Of course you're acting.”

He slides his hip against me some more and my body flares in response to the one part of him that can't be faked. “Is that your final answer?” His murmur is more intimate than quiet.

I'm biting the inside of my lip, but I can't stifle a sound of desperation. He frees me, only to skim one hand around my waist while the other tumbles down along my thigh. I steady myself against him and interlink our fingers in a hard grip, soaking in the warmth at my back.

“Greg.” Mycroft tightens his hold on me. “You _wanted_ to be to be convinced?”

The throb of vulnerability in his voice catches me short. Yes, I wanted, of course I wanted. But I want the real Mycroft, not some mask. “On the plane, I thought I did.”

He freezes, loosens his hold while he thinks. I try to hold on, but he pulls away. “I-I see.”

When I look around, he's standing in front of his desk, three-quarters turned away from me, his head bowed. He's massaging his temples with the thumb and fingers of one hand which shadows his face.

I could have handled that better. “I don't think you do. When that madman pulled a weapon, I tried to get to you. It was like running through treacle. At the very least, you could've been seriously hurt, and I was helpless.” He looks up at me. “Christ, when I thought I might lose you—”

My voice has gone so tight it peters out, and my lungs empty on a gust. My in-breath is shaky at best. I take another, but it's not much better.

“I had good people looking out for me.”

“Thank God your agent got there in time because if she hadn't …”

“You were right there.”

I shake my head. “After what happened at the airport, I don't want to be convinced.” He doesn't flinch, but he holds himself still in a way that makes me panic. “After what happened at the airport—Mycroft—I want _you_ to be convinced.”

He closes his eyes for a second. “I wasn't aware,” he says as we stare at each other, “that my willingness was in question.”

“Of course it's in question! You were undercover on a mission, so you can't be held to any action on that flight. And afterwards, Mycroft, it's been more than a month since we landed and you never … you've been … you said you'd explain everything.” I examine the skirting board around his office. Oh, there isn't one. I look back at him. “More than that, if we're going to do this, I want the real you.”

“My situation requires me to keep secrets, to keep away for days at a time. It makes any personal relationship difficult.”

“I'm not talking about a personal relationship.” I pause. Maybe I am. “I'm not talking about moving in any time soon. Maybe things would be difficult, but there's nothing easy about any of this, is there. It's the children.”

“You and your wife don't have any children.”

“Exactly. Our marriage coughed its last breath a couple of years ago. Now that we've finally faced it, the divorce is a formality. Once the papers are signed, we'll thank God and relatively painlessly go our separate ways. But you and I …”

Amusement colours his eyes. “We don't have any children either.”

“While that's technically true, we have a tall, dark purpose holding us together and his wellbeing is a strong glue. You and I already have a relationship and I'll never abandon the reason for it. Sherlock is ingrained into my life now.” Mycroft reaches back for the desk and leans on it again. “So if something more happens between you and me, no matter what, we're never completely going to be able to go our separate ways.”

“Unless I have him killed.”

“Tempting,” my lips quirk, “but you and I both know how much you care for him.”

Instant freeze. “Don't say that. Caring is not an advantage.”

“Who would know better than someone who cares for another beyond all reason? And you're helpless to do a thing about it.” His face pales. I don't know why I've never seen it before; only that much vulnerability could fuel his stunning accumulation of power. I think I'm starting to see the real Mycroft Holmes.

“He got clean for you.” He crosses his arms and his studies his shoes. “Something he would never have done for me.”

“He would have done it for anyone who could unlock the door to the puzzles he loves so much.” I shrug. “You knew that when you pointed him in my direction.”

“Not precisely anyone. After all, you're not the only detective inspector at the Yard. Something about you … you hide it well, but you confound and astound, Gregory Lestrade.”

That could be a ringing endorsement, in a backhanded way. So. I may be ordinary, I may be average, I may be an idiot, but the real Mycroft Holmes now stands up. It's my job to break people down once I get them, and I'm pretty good at it. I'm still surprised.

There's one more thing, though. I don't want to be the one to say it, but someone's got to.

“So, do you”—I may never recover from this and I lick my lips, my heart frantic—“do you want to give us a try?”

“You,” he stands and brushes imaginary lint off his already perfect trousers before looking up, “are the wisest”—he steps closer to me—“kindest”—closer—“most unpredictable man I know.” He closes the gap. “How is it your talents are wasted at the Yard when you could have a place in the secret service?”

Euphoria blazes in a distinct shade of red as I clear my throat. “Could be something to do with my crap undercover ability.”

“Ah, yes.” His gaze falls to my mouth. “We'll have to work on that.”

His fingers graze my nape and skim up into my hair, making me shiver, while his other hand lands on the small of my back, pulling me close. His lips slant across mine and lust crashes over me. I grab him before my knees go, desperate noises twisting out of my throat.

After a few moments, he says, “Tell me you want this.”

“You know I do.”

“Tell me you want _me_.”

After all this, how can he doubt it? Before I know it, I'm backing him up against the wall because I can't stand to hear the apprehension in his voice.

“You.” Hands either side of his head, I hold him down with my toes against the wall, my knees trapping his. “Only you.”

My mouth rams against his, and he yields as I invade him. Solid, yet warm and soft, he lets me ransack this sanctuary. His arms come around me, one hand sliding down to clutch my arse, and as our hips slot together, neither of us can hold back groans. Unthinking, I blab. “I think I've always wanted you.”

He pulls away to look at me. “Truly?”

“Of course truly.” I take his face in my hands, and the rage of want and need I see in his eyes almost take me out, thinning my voice to a hoarse whisper. “I can't act well enough for it to be otherwise.”

He spins us around so my back slams into the wall, and he kisses me with fury, like this is our last chance.

Oh God, he's not going to send me away, is he? Not now. “I hope you've got a fold up bed in here somewhere.”

He snorts his laughter. “I'm not that easy.”

“There is nothing about you that's easy.”

“Disappointed?”

“You're a lot of trouble, Mycroft Holmes,” I push my fingers through his hair, “but everything about you is worth it.”

“I'm ordering a car." No, oh Christ, please don't. "Join me for dinner?”

I close my eyes and slump back. "Don't _do_ that."

"What should I do, then?" Looking at his face, I decide I like this teasing Mycroft.

"This." I kiss him and we both soar.

Above the clouds, I can see forever. 

###


End file.
